“She must mean the Centre,” said the other. “But do you mean to say you can’t even remember us, Orchis?”
“No,” I admitted, shaking my head. “I’m sorry, but everything before I came round in the Hosp ... in the Centre, is all blank.”
“That’s queer,” Hazel said, in an unsympathetic tone. “Do they know?”
One of the others took my part.
“Of course they’re bound to know. I expect they don’t think that remembering or not has anything to do with having Grade One babies. And why should it, anyway? But look, Orchis”
“Why not let her rest for a bit,” another cut in. “I don’t suppose she’s feeling too good after the Centre, and the journey, and getting in here. I never do myself. Don’t take any notice of them, Orchis, dear. You just go to sleep for a bit. You’ll probably find it’s all quite all right when you wake up.”
I accepted her suggestion gratefully. The whole thing was far too bewildering to cope with at the moment; moreover, I did feel exhausted. I thanked her for her advice, and lay back on my pillow. In so far as the closing of one’s eyes can be made ostentatious, I made it so. What was more surprising was that, if one can be said to sleep within an hallucination or a dream, I slept…
In the moment of waking, before opening my eyes, I had a flash of hope that I should find the illusion had spent itself. Unfortunately, it had not. A hand was shaking my shoulder gently, and the first thing that I saw was the face of the little women’s leader, close to mine.
In the way of nurses she said: “There, Mother Orchis, dear. You’ll be feeling a lot better after that nice sleep, won’t you?”
Beyond her, two more of the small women were carrying a short-legged bed tray towards me. They set it down so that it bridged me, and was convenient to reach. I stared at the load on it. It was, with no exception, the most enormous and nourishing meal I had ever seen put before one person. The first sight of it revolted me but then I became aware of a schism within, for it did not revolt the physical form that I occupied: that, in fact, had a watering mouth, and was eager to begin. An inner part of me marvelled in a kind of semi-detachment while the rest consumed two or three fish, a whole chicken, some slices of meat, a pile of vegetables, fruit hidden under mounds of stiff cream, and more than a quart of milk, without any sense of surfeit. Occasional glances showed me that the other “Mothers” were dealing just as thoroughly with the contents of their similar trays.
I caught one or two curious looks from them, but they were too seriously occupied to take up their inquisition again at the moment. I wondered how to fend them off later, and it occurred to me that if only I had a book or a magazine I might be able to bury myself effectively, if not very politely, in it.
When the attendants returned I asked the badged one if she could let me have something to read. The effect of such a simple request was astonishing: the two who were removing my tray all but dropped it. The one beside me gaped for an amazed moment before she collected her wits. She looked at me, first with suspicion, and then with concern.
“Not feeling quite yourself yet, dear?” she suggested.
“But I am,” I protested. “I’m quite all right now.”
The look of concern persisted, however.
“If I were you I’d try to sleep again,” she advised.
“But I don’t want to. I’d just like to read quietly,” I objected.
She patted my shoulder, a little uncertainly.
“I’m afraid you’ve had an exhausting time, Mother. Never mind, I’m sure it’ll pass quite soon.”
I felt impatient. “What’s wrong with wanting to read?” I demanded.
She smiled a smug, professional nurse smile.
“There, there, dear. Just you try to rest a little more. Why, bless me, what on earth would a Mother want with knowing how to read?”
With that she tidied my coverlet, and bustled away, leaving me to the wide-eyed stares of my five companions. Hazel gave a kind of contemptuous snigger; otherwise there was no audible comment for several minutes.
I had reached a stage where the persistence of the hallucination was beginning to wear away my detachment. I could feel that under a little more pressure I should be losing my confidence and starting to doubt its unreality. I did not at all care for its calm continuity. Inconsequent exaggerations and jumps, foolish perceptives, indeed any of the usual dream characteristics would have been reassuring, but, instead, it continued to present obvious nonsense, with an alarming air of conviction and consequence. Effects, for instance, were unmistakably following causes. I began to have an uncomfortable feeling that were one to dig deep enough one might begin to find logical causes for the absurdities, too. The integration was far too good for mental comfort even the fact that I had enjoyed my meal as if I were fully awake, and was consciously feeling the better for it, encouraged the disturbing quality of reality.
“Read!” Hazel said suddenly, with a scornful laugh. “And write, too, I suppose?”
“Well, why not?” I retorted.
They all gazed at me more attentively than ever, and then exchanged meaning glances among themselves. Two of them smiled at one another. I demanded irritably: What on earth’s wrong with that? Am I supposed not to be able to read or write, or something?”
One said kindly, soothingly: “Orchis, dear. Don’t you think it would be better if you were to ask to see the doctor? Just for a check up?”
“No,” I told her flatly. “There’s nothing wrong with me. I’m just trying to understand. I simply ask for a book, and you all look at me as if I were mad. Why?”
After an awkward pause the same one said humouringly, and almost in the words of the little attendant: “Orchis, dear, do try to pull yourself together. What sort of good would reading and writing be to a Mother. How could they help her to have better babies?”
“There are other things in life besides having babies,” I said, shortly.
If they had been surprised before, they were thunderstruck now. Even Hazel seemed bereft of suitable comment. Their idiotic astonishment exasperated me and made me suddenly sick of the whole nonsensical business. Temporarily, I did forget to be the detached observer of a dream.
“Damn it,” I broke out. “What is all this rubbish? Orchis! Mother Orchis! for God’s sake! Where am I? Is this some kind of lunatic asylum?”
I stared at them, angrily, loathing the sight of them, wondering if they were all in some spiteful complicity against me. Somehow I was quite convinced in my own mind that whoever, or whatever I was, I was not a mother. I said so, forcibly, and then, to my annoyance, burst into tears.
For lack of anything else to use, I. dabbed at my eyes with my sleeve. When I could see clearly again I found that four of them were looking at me with kindly concern. Hazel, however, was not.
“I said there was something queer about her,” she told the others, triumphantly. “She’s mad, that’s what it is.”
The one who had been most kindly disposed before, tried again: “But, Orchis, of course you are a Mother. You’re a Class One Mother with three births registered. Twelve fine Grade One babies, dear. You can’t have forgotten that!”
For some reason I wept again. I had a feeling that something was trying to break through the blankness in my mind; but I did not know what it was, only that it made me feel intensely miserable.
“Oh, this is cruel, cruel! Why can’t I stop it? Why won’t it go away and leave me?” I pleaded. “There’s a horrible cruel mockery here but I don’t understand it. What’s wrong with me? I’m not obsessional! I’m not! oh, can’t somebody help me…?”
I kept my eyes tight shut for a time, willing with all my mind that the whole hallucination should fade and disappear.